


THAT WHICH SURVIVES

by Wolfiekins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Language & Situations, Dubious Consent, M/M, Slash, Strong sexual content, UST, Underage Sex, Violence, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is not always the End, as some things refuse to be extinguished.</p><p>WARNINGS: Major Angst, Violence, Adult Language & Situations, Slash, Strong Sexual Content, UST, Underage, Dubious Consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in August, 1995 just prior to Harry being taken to Grimmauld Place. Title is taken from the third season TOS episode of the same name.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. No offence intended nor monies made through this presentation.

...

...

Blackness.

Silence.

Oblivion.

Safety.

Sensation barely perceived, infinitely far away, quiet, timid at first, as always.

The pause, as a breath held for infinity...

The onslaught, expected but still brutal.

A subtle swirl of perception, confused and random, suddenly coalescing into a raging maelstrom, a tumultuous vortex of sound and colour, waves of scorching heat and numbing cold, whispers, screams, cries of agony, whimpered mutterings of mercy.

All together, all at once, infusing his dead being, pulling, dragging, yanking him up, forcing him from the welcome cocoon of his abyss.

Awake.

Cold.

Stiff.

Muscles as stone, immensely heavy and immobile.

Eyelids prised open against his will, nothing but blackness before him.

Tightness.

A tremendous weight instantly pressing on him, squeezing ever harder. Another pause.

He attempts to resist, to retreat back into the abyss, but the force is unrelenting. His feeble effort to fight instantly fails.

His mouth flies open, and a wave of air flows into him, savagely coercing his lungs to fill. And just when he feels as if he'd burst, he somehow remembers how to breathe and expels his first breath, gagging on the foulness of the air. His now awakened lungs once again function, sluggish at first, but quickly gaining momentum.

His heart begins to beat again, steady, smooth, so unlike everything else to do with his awakening.

Feeling seeps into his limbs, tiny tendrils of sensation quietly making their way to the very tips of his fingers and toes.

He sits up, wiping a warming hand over his face as if to clear cobwebs that of course aren't there.

Awareness floods his mind, methodically pushing away the haze, replacing the fading cacophony of his waking.

Stench.

Rot.

Refuse.

His sense of smell reasserts itself, always last, always reliable, always the final sign that his resurrection is complete.

All stiffness gone from his body, he rises up, easily pushing open the lid of the refuse bin. It swings up and backward, colliding with the nearby wall with a metallic clang that echoes through the alleyway. He cares little if anyone were present to see him; if someone were unfortunate enough to be within fifty yards of him, he'd be upon them in an instant.

There was no one to witness him this night, however, so he leaps from the edge of the rubbish container and crouches down to survey the entire area in a second.

Empty.

Tires on wet pavement some distance away. A television in a third floor flat tuned to the BBC. Music from the far end of the alley. A dog barking a warning three blocks to the south.

A cat leaps into the rubbish container he'd just vacated, foraging for food.

Other than that, the alley is his.

He stands and stretches, long fingers tracing over his chest, his waist, stopping at his thighs. He breathes in the moist night air, the scent of petrol nearly overwhelming. But just under that, he latches onto what he needs.

The redolent aroma that never fails to quicken his dead heart. It suffuses him, a reminder of what he'd once been, and what has become the sole object of his nocturnal activities, a necessity that he'd long ago ceased to resist.

Hunger.

Yes, he was indeed hungry, and he would have to feed soon, lest his voracious appetite overwhelm his reason. He'd let that happen only once before, and he'd vowed to never let it happen again.

But first things first. His clothes were tattered and torn, filthy and covered in blood, gore and refuse from his impromptu flop in the rubbish bin. He hadn't changed them in days, and he'd most definitely need something new to wear.

It wouldn't do to look like a beggar. He still retained much of himself, of his old life before, so it was only natural that he despised appearing unkempt, dirty.

But keeping up appearances also dovetailed very nicely with his new life, as it were.

It was much easier to walk amongst the living if one dressed the part.

If one looked and pretended to be like them.

And it made hunting that much easier.

He sweeps down the alleyway toward the sound of traffic, keeping to the shadows. In an instant he stands on the verge of the sidewalk and quickly scans the side street, finding nothing but a handful of autos plying the wet pavement.

Perfect.

He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his ruined denims and shuffles down the sidewalk, head down, seemingly oblivious. No need to call attention to himself.

Two blocks down, there is a trendy clothing shop. He'd spied it the previous dawn; just the place to acquire some new attire.

He steps up to the kerb, looking both ways before crossing the street.

Tonight was the night. He knew it. He was ready.

It had taken weeks for him to reach this point, for his mind to clear, for him to master and reign in his hunger. It had taken him that long to finally remember who and what he'd been before.

And what he'd wanted.

He was close. He'd be there this very night.

He patiently waits for a pair of autos to pass by before lumbering across the street.

He smiles as he makes his way around to the rear of the clothing shop. He scales the wall to the only window on the facade, set high off the ground. He rips the bars from the brick, dropping them before punching through the re-enforced double-paned security glass.

The next moment he's inside, effortlessly gliding through the dark aisles, ignoring the bleat of the store alarm as if it didn't exist. It was of no consequence.

Less than a minute later, he's six blocks away, sloughing off his ruined clothes in the sitting room of an abandoned row house.

He carefully removes the tags from his new acquisitions, and dresses with a forced slowness, savouring every moment of it.

When he's done, he wipes a hand across the dusty mirror over the mantle and takes several steps backward, catching his reflection.

He nods as he runs his fingers through his auburn hair.

“That'll do,” he breathes to himself, smiling.

He steps from the house, filled with an anticipation he hadn't felt in what seemed like ages. Some things had transitioned from his old life to the new, but strangely, he had no desire to see family, friends, familiar haunts.

But there was one constant, a tenuous tether anchoring him to his old world.

And he knew with absolute certainty that that one thing was all.

It gave him purpose, meaning.

A reason to exist.

He was swiftly becoming revenous, and he'd have to satisfy that need before embarking upon the final leg of his journey. And he'd have to be neat about it as well, which wasn't a problem if he took care of it quickly.

Something someone had said sometime flitted through his mind: _"There's nothing you can't do if you set yourself to it."_

How true, indeed.

Cedric chuckles aloud as he set out in search of his first hunt of the evening.


	2. Hunger

Muggles.

He hadn't spent much time amongst them in his old life. The reasons for this escape him, like so many details from before. 

Was it because of his father? 

No matter. 

That was then, this was now. 

Humans were humans. Wizard or Muggle, they were all the same to him.

He does remember a certain disdain on the part of Wizards toward Muggles. An elitism, a sense of being more evolved, superior.

Pure shite.

He'd seen abhorrent behaviour prominently displayed on both sides of the imaginary divide. Indeed, it had been a Wizard that had hurled the Killing Curse at him that night that seemed so long ago. 

He turns the bits of information over in his mind for a few more moments before the pangs of hunger reassert themselves. Contemplating, hypothesizing, daydreaming: all little tricks he'd discovered to be useful in staving off the hunger, the inevitable. 

He rises from the park bench, sniffing the air, scanning, searching. The clothing shop is several miles behind him now. This new district is cleaner, newer, more densely populated. Sure to be perfect for his needs.

He strolls down the winding dirt path, ducking to avoid low hanging branches. A moment later, he's on the sidewalk, moving toward a line of well-kept shops, restaurants and pubs. 

People mill about, mostly couples, some small groups, going to and fro, back and forth, in and out, laughing, whispering, listening. 

The scene could be taken directly from Hogsmeade. 

No difference.

He walks up to the first building, a small restaurant. He pretends to read the menu placard in the window as he quickly scans the patrons inside. 

The aroma wafting through the open front door might have once been desirable: a melange of herbs, garlic, roasting meat. Now, it was merely pungent, unpleasant, no different from the clouds of petrol belched from automobiles.

He pauses a moment.

No. Nothing.

He moves on, taking great pains to smile and acknowledge those that he passes.

He recalls much of what he'd been taught concerning vampires. Nearly all inaccurate. False.

Garlic, for instance. 

Aside from smelling foul, no consequence.

Mirrors? Another falsehood. 

Crucifixes, as before, held no interest and had no effect whatsoever.

Coffins? Rubbish.

Sunlight was problematic, however. He'd found that direct sunlight was to be avoided at all costs. Not because he'd explode in a ball of flame and ash, as he'd seen in a Muggle film once. Sunlight was painful, indeed, and if he were to be somehow forced to remain in it, he would most definitely be seriously damaged. 

He'd found that he could actually move about quite well during very overcast or rainy days with no ill effects.

He smiles to himself, somewhat amazed that he'd slipped into his contemplative mode without realising it.

For some odd reason, it was important—no, _vital_ \--that he maintain composure, that he not lose himself in a frenzy of hunting and feeding.

He was a monster, a killer, inhuman and apart, but he saw no reason to behave as a monster.

He approaches a pub, all green and red, bight neon colours strobing from the twin front windows, laughter, music and the smell of beer wafting through the open front doors. 

With no hesitation he walks inside, effortlessly navigating through the crowd toward an empty space at the bar. 

He places a nicked tenner onto the heavily lacquered surface and turns around, elbows on the bar top, to survey the crowd.

Yes. There was something here. 

The hunger rises up once more, insistent, warm. 

“What'll ya 'ave, mate?”

He turns and nods to one of the brightly coloured tap handles.

“Smithwick's”

“Pint?”

“Yeah.”

The barman nods, taking another order as he grabs a large glass and proceeds to fill it.

Cedric watches intently as the amber liquid fills the glass, swirls of bubbles and shades of yellow and gold. Flecks of colour from the neons reflect from the mirror behind the bar, roiling and turning in an intricate dance of eddys and currents. 

It is beautiful. 

So many simple things were beautiful to him now. 

Had he simply never taken time to notice them before? 

The barman sets the glass down before Cedric with a firm clunk, breaking him from his reverie.

“There ya go.”

“Thanks.”

The barman pauses a moment. He seems puzzled. As if he sees something but doesn't quite know what to make of it.

It is nothing new. Cedric's seen that expression often lately.

He hefts the heavy glass and takes a healthy swallow of the amber liquid. 

The barman blinks a few times as he collects the tenner and moves off to make change.

Cedric turns again, sipping on the beer, scanning the crowd. The beer is cool, tingly on his tongue, but oddly flavourless. He'd discovered that he could still eat and drink, yet he had no desire to, nor did it have any effect on slaking his real hunger.

Another misconception concerning his kind.

He hears his change hit the bar top but doesn't turn around.

He's found it.

Yes, there.

Across the narrow pub, a pair of Muggle couples inhabit a booth. A herd of empty bottles fill the end of the table occupied by the two men. The women appear bored, staring at each other and the others in the pub, their fingers curled about the stems of their empty wine glasses. 

The men are oblivious, hunched over the table, talking far too loudly and pounding home their talking points with clenched fists.

Cedric swallows some more beer, imagining that the coolness of the liquid might cool the building heat deep within.

One of the men looks up then, to his woman, clearly annoyed. He gestures at her empty wine glass and she shakes her head. He doesn't like this response. He turns in his seat to face her, his face reddening with anger. The other couple stare at the tabletop, clearly embarrassed.

Cedric can hear every word that is said, but they're not important. He blocks out the words and concentrates on the motions, the movements, the expressions.

Yes.

The man reaches out and clamps a heavy hand on his woman's arm. She jumps as he continues to berate her.

Their friends make a hasty retreat, dropping some currency on the table as they exit the pub.

The woman seems to shrink, her face drained of colour, her expression fearful.

The man releases his woman's arm, and Cedric can easily see the imprint of his fingers on her pale skin, red, ugly.

The man pounds the table with his fist, spouts still more vitriol, and gestures savagely toward the front doors.

The woman nods and stands, and she slings her handbag over her shoulder.

The man grabs the currency left by their friends and pours out of the booth, and stuffs it into the pockets of his ridiculously ill-fitting trousers. He points at the table, and his woman reaches into her handbag with shaking fingers. She drops some bills, and the man is pushing her toward the front door almost before they hit the table.

Nearby customers take great pains to ignore the drama.

Cedric drains his glass, placing it next to his unwanted change.

He's out of the pub in an instant, expertly maintaining a discreet distance behind the man and woman.

The couple round a corner, heading toward a small car park behind the row of buildings. The man continues to berate the woman, his hand once again clamped around her upper arm. She is clearly terrified, in pain. 

Cedric closes the distance between them silently. His new instincts threaten to take over, to overwhelm his reason, and he does his best to marshal the flood tide.

He cannot lose himself to the bloodlust. 

He would not be a random killer. 

He must _NOT_ destroy the innocent.

He turns his mantra over and over in his head, struggling to maintain control as he moves closer and closer to the pair of humans.

Heartbeats now thud in his ears; his, and those of the couple before him. His vision is tinged in red, a red that slowly covers and stains all that he sees.

The man has backed the woman against the wall of a building, automobile keys in her shaking hand.

The man has one hand on her throat, the other in a fist, pulled back, aimed, poised to strike.

Cedric focuses then on the man, pushing all else away. He drops his resistance and allows the smouldering fire to explode within.

He is on the man in an instant. He takes the man's raised fist with one hand, twists it full around, bending the arm backward and shoving it up into the middle of his back. Bones snap and pop as wet wood in a fire.

The man screams.

The woman screams.

Cedric holds the man's useless right arm in place as he clamps his free hand over the man's mouth, sealing it shut.

The woman screams.

The man flails his right arm in a futile attempt to escape. 

Cedric pushes against the cobblestones, leaping three stories with ease, landing on the roof of the building, the man still struggling to escape. Cedric leaps over the span of blackness to the rooftop of the flats on the other side of the alley, and in seconds is at the opposite end of the block. 

The woman's screams are far off, faint, nearly lost amongst the night sounds of the city.

Cedric throws the man against a stand of chimneys, where he crumples in a tangled heap.

“Stop, please,” he moans.

Cedric remains silent as he slowly approaches, barring his fangs. 

The man's eyes widen as he attempts to slide away.

Cedric leaps upon him, pinning him against the brickwork.

The man struggles, lashing out with his remaining good arm, kicking frantically with both legs.

Cedric firmly grasps the man's head, and with a swift, controlled motion, snaps the neck just enough to sever the spinal column. 

The man falls still, silent, his eyes wider and filled with horror.

“How does it feel, being powerless, helpless?” Cedric asks softly, nose to nose with his prey.

Without waiting for an answer, he sinks his fangs into the man's neck, and all goes Red.


	3. Remembrance

“Hey, Ced, are ya comin' or what?”

“I'm fine. I'll see you in Potions first thing.”

Haughton shrugs and points a forefinger to his temple. “Sprout'll _Kedavra_ your arse if she catches you out past curfew. Again.”

He waves a hand in a vague gesture. “No worries. I've got it covered.”

“Right. Sure you do.” Haughton shakes his head and makes his way out of the pub with the rest of the errant Hufflepuffs, pausing one last time. His expression is pleading, desperate in a way.

“Get the fuck outta here,” he says, downing his last shot of firewhiskey and chasing it with a hefty swallow of ice cold butterbeer. “I'll be along shortly.”

“Have it your way, mate,” Haughton replies, slamming the front door behind him.

“Oi! No need fo' that,” the barman yells, not looking up from his dish washing. “Spoilt brats.”

Cedric chuckles, watching as streams of tiny bubbles lazily make their way upward through the remains of his butterbeer. 

He really did have things covered. 

That was part of the problem.

His marks were fine. Not tops of his house, but in the top twenty, to be sure. 

It was easy.

Far too easy.

He takes another swallow of butterbeer, sinking still lower into his chair as the barman shuffles about, snuffing out the oil lamps.

Sure, he studied, but it wasn't the all or nothing, life or death struggle that nearly all of his classmates went through. 

It was just...easy. 

No challenge.

Dull.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was no more exciting to him than History of Magic.

“Shouldn't it be, though?” he mutters to himself.

It matters to his parents, that much is certain. 

They see him at The Ministry someday, holding down a position of some importance.

It's what they've dreamed of.

It's all they speak of.

He hefts his glass in a sloppy toast.

“Fuck The Ministry.”

“'Ere, 'ere,” the barman snorts, pushing his way amongst the goats.

Cedric swallows some more of the rapidly warming beer, knowing he should leave but not wanting to return to Hogwart's.

He leans back in his rickety chair, as the dying embers in the soot encrusted fireplace splutter their last.

From behind the bar, as if from far away, the barman crashes about, cursing Merlin and raising all sorts of racket.

He doesn't mind. It's all good.

It's just what he needs. 

Escape.

Release.

Comfort.

No one would understand.

How could they?

He cannot even sort it out for himself.

It's just the thing he needs to do. 

A few of his house mates seem to feel the same. 

Houghton, for instance. He seems to understand.

But does he _really_?

He eyes his empty shot glass for a moment before shoving it across the table in disgust.

Where was Haughton now? 

Hadn't he—- _they_ abandoned him once again?

Not a one of his mates seemed to have the stomach for it. 

Each and every one worried about marks and perceptions and future options.

 _What would Mum and Da think?_

What would they think, indeed, if they knew that their bright, intelligent boy regularly indulges in extended pub crawls and extra-curricular activities with members of the same sex?

“Bollocks!” he cries out to no one, finishing the last of his butterbeer.

“Out, laddie,” the barman slurs, nearly tumbling to the floor. “Get your arse back ta 'th school before both 'o us are in trouble, yeah?”

He considers a witty retort, but allows it to die on the tip of his tongue. 

No point in burning any bridges. 

“See ya,” he shoots back, mustering all the control he can as the floorboards seem to cant of their own volition.

A moment later, and he's outside, vaguely aware that he's a tad more inebriated that he'd thought and hopelessly out past curfew.

He stumbles his way across the annoyingly jumbled cobblestones, silently cursing the Hogsmeade Public Works Department for their steadfast dedication in maintaining the 'essence of antiquity'.

“Fuck!” he yells, his left foot twisting about in an alarming manner.

He crumples, pain surging directly into the back of his throbbing brain. 

“Quite the picture, eh?” he gasps. “One of the Tri-Wizard Champions, wallowing about the back alleys of Hogsmeade. Parents would be proud.” 

He slides backward, leaning against a damp stone facade, closing his eyes as he massages his aching foot. 

_Bloody fucking hell, what a fine turn_ , he muses silently, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Less than a fortnight until the Third Task. And Potter had proved to me much more of a challenger than anyone had anticipated.

Potter.

Harry.

That had truly been a surprise.

A catalyst, even.

He'd never expected the Gryffindor to be so helpful. 

Or receptive.

_Harry._

How could he have been so blind to his own desires?

That night in the Prefect's Bath...

He groans as the pain in his foot subsides.

How should he proceed? What should he do?

Ignore what had passed between them?

Continue on as if nothing had happened? 

As if their feelings were of no consequence?

“Harry.”

He feels steady enough to stand once more, his foot ready to support his weight.

Best to worry about it all tomorrow.

“Do not worry,” a voice wafts from the mist.

His eyes snap open, his heart nearly leaping from his chest. “Who's there?”

“Someone who understands.”

A form coalesces from the darkness, shadow upon shadow. 

“Haughton?” 

“I'm afraid not.”

“Who?”

“Who I am is not important.”

Cedric hoists himself up and presses against the cold brick. 

He feels oddly numb, somehow empty. 

Opaque.

Devoid of feeling. Devoid of fear.

“Do not fear me, Cedric. I am here in answer to your call.”

The shadow moves closer. 

“Call?” Cedric manages to say. “I don't understand. Do I know you?”

“We have not met, formally.”

Cedric stares, aware that he cannot remove his gaze from the shadow before him. “Then how...”

“All shall be explained, Cedric.”

“...do you know my name?” 

“I know everything about you. I have heard you, from league upon league, calling out, searching, waiting.” 

The shadow moves closer, the weak moonlight carving out details from the darkness.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hollow cheeks. 

Eyes...eyes bright, sharp. 

Intense.

Knowing.

Hungry.

Cedric gulps in the wet night air, his chest suddenly heavy. “Wait.”

“The time for waiting is over, my boy.”

Cedric tries to move away, but finds only unyielding stone at his back. “Whatever you want, just take it,” he whispers, eyes agape as the shadow moves closer. “I'll do whatever you wish.”

“Indeed you shall.”

He gasps as cool hands clamp onto his shoulders. 

The eyes, _those_ eyes, lock onto his own, boring into his the deepest, darkest depths of his very soul.

“I understand everything,” the shadow says, leaning forward.

Cedric glances from side to side, but no one else shares the narrow streets.

They are alone.

“The Ministry would not suit you,” the shadow says, tilting its head to one side. “Nor would a career in academia, or sport.”

The shadow is upon him now, close, so very close, nearly blotting out all else.

“You are destined for much more than that, Cedric. One such as yourself...”

A long pause as the shadow takes in a deep, shuddering breath.

“...one so beautiful, one so perfect, so delicious...”

“Wait. I...”

“What? This is what you want, yes? You desire adventure, challenge. Freedom. I know your cry of pain well, my son.” 

He holds his breath, unsure how to answer. 

“Am I in error?” A long, cool finger caresses his forehead. 

“I...I...” Cedric slumps as all tension drains from his body. 

The shadow presses against him, firm, solid, strong. 

“You will find that I know you better than those that made you. I shall give you opportunities they can never imagine. I shall give you all.”

Strong arms encircle him, holding him tight. 

“Shhhhhhh. It is fine. Do not resist.”

He feels a tremendous weight lift from him, his chest suddenly free, clear. 

A cool tongue traces a path across his neck, from one ear to the other. 

He moans and his back arches away from the bricks.

“You must ask me, my son. You must ask me to save you from your fate.”

He throws his arms around the shadow, hugging it tightly. 

Is this what he wants? Is this what he's been longing for?

He shivers as strong fingers cup the back of his head.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what, Cedric?” 

“Please.”

A pause.

A wind rises up, rushing through the narrow street, kicking up all sorts of rubbish and leaves.

He shudders, goose flesh rising all over his body.

“Yes?”

Cool lips caress his cheek, slowly working their way across his jaw, down his neck.

Breath, hotcold, burning, freezing his flesh, needing, wanting.

“Harry!”

“Shhhh, my son.”

Strong fingers yank his head backward.

“Say. Say, now.”

He looks upward, the moon sliding behind cloud, chill wind freezing his bones.

He closes his eyes.

“Please. Save me,” he hears a voice say.

He scarcely recognizes the voice as his own before the sharppain invades all.

Thunder pounds about within his skull as all goes Red...


	4. Creator

The blood rushes into him, pounding, all hotthick, full of life.

Thrumming through every vein, every capillary. 

Restoring, strengthening.

Feeding.

Solid heat rises from deep within, surging through every bit of his being.

The haze clears.

Reality returns.

“Did he taste good?”

Cedric's eyes snap open, every one of his senses suddenly alert, painfully aware.

“Because he certainly doesn't look like he would.”

“Doesn't matter,” Cedric answers, annoyed at how heavy and slurred his voice is. “I needed to feed.”

“Of course it matters. Have I taught you nothing?”

The veil lifts further, and Cedric sits back on his heels, dragging the back of a hand across his mouth.

“What do you want?”

“What do I always want?”

Cedric doesn't answer. 

He glances at the drained corpse of his prey, the man's eyes wide, pleading. 

Vacant.

He stands, the nightsound of the city swirling all about him again, caressing his skin like a song once known but now forgotten. 

“Leave me alone, Pai.”

Pai laughs. “I would, if that's what you really wanted.”

“It is.” 

Cedric whirls around, clenching his fists and mustering what he hoped to be his most fearful expression.

“Save your energy, little one. You don't frighten me.” 

He knows it is true. 

Pai isn't frightened of anything, apparently. 

Pai is Pai. 

He just is.

“I liked it better when you spoke like a real vampire.” 

Cedric picks at his shirt, vaguely satisfied that it appeared to be free of blood and gore. 

At least that worked out well.

“Are you sure? I don't recall speaking any differently than I am now.”

“You did.”

Pai's shadow shrugs. “Call it artistic licence.”

“You're insane.” 

Cedric watches as the shadow that is Pai observes him, watches, dissects. 

Pai is nothing but silhouette, a child's cut-out, a caricature of what a real person might be. 

A shape laid flat against the moonlight.

A dark being, his Creator.

His Saviour.

“Petulance doesn't suit you, Cedric.”

Pai leaps down from the chimneystack, his cigarette glowing orange one last time before he flicks it away. 

“I only wish to help”

“Bollocks.”

Cedric wishes to turn away, but as is the case when Pai appears, he finds he cannot.

“That's better,” Pai says, moving closer, the wind plying through his shoulder-length mane. 

_“Do not fight me.”_

Pai's last words echo through Cedrics mind, bouncing off the insides of his skull as if curses ricocheting from poorly cast protection spells.

 _“You are mine.”_

Pai's voice thunders through his brain. 

_“I saved you.”_

Stop.

_“You don't want me to.”_

Stop. Now.

The shadow that is Pai coalesces into being, wan moonlight transforming him, shaping nothing into human form. 

Deep brown eyes, firebright.

Seeing, knowing all.

_“Submit to your nature.”_

I won't.

_“You must.”_

Please!

_“As you wish.”_

As with the receding tide, Pai withdraws from his roiling mind.

A cool finger grazes his chin. 

“You are following the wrong path.” 

Pai is upon him, his eyes ablaze with power, knowledge, strength.

A large hand caresses his face. 

“Listen to me, precious one. ”

Pai smiles, fangs bared.

He is beautiful, terrifying.

Forever.

Cedric attempts to steel himself against his Creator's onslaught, forcing his mind to earlier places, happier places, the past...anywhere but here. 

But Pai is too strong.

Relentless.

Wonderful.

Cedric ceases his struggle and submits to the inevitable. 

He is drawn to Pai, wrapping his arms around that slim waist, burying his head into that broad chest.

He closes his eyes, Pai's strong arms encircling him in a firm embrace.

_“Much better for you to accept what is.”_

“It's difficult.”

_“Yes.”_

“I don't mean to anger you.”

_“I know.”_

“I'm sorry, Pai.”

_“Look at me, youngling.”_

Cedric complies, staring upward at his Creator, the Master of his new existence. 

His breath hitches in his chest at the beauty and malevolence he finds in that angelic countenance. 

Pai leans down, one hand ghosting upward, tracing a line across Cedric's chest to cup the back of his neck.

_“You suffer the echoes of your old life as none I've ever seen.”_

Pai's lips skate across his jaw.

_“Those echoes must be allowed to fade.”_

Calloused hands pull him close, slide under his shirt, invade every inch of his torso. 

_“What is dead should remain dead.”_

Cedric gasps as Pai grinds into him, fresh blood to fresh blood, warm, strong, intent.

Hot breath on his neck, his chest, teeth biting, probing his flesh, asking permission yet needing none.

 _“You must look ahead, not backward.”_

Cedric's reply is quashed as Pai claims his lips. 

He can do nothing but be devoured then, willingly. 

He thrusts himself against his Master, his fangs raking across Pai's questing tongue. 

Pai grasps him firmly, one arm around his shoulders, the other clenching his backside.

He is lifted up as a feather in Pai's powerful embrace, wrapping his legs around Pai's waist as he submits to his destiny.

_“Stay with me.”_

Cedric breaks the kiss, Pai's entreaty unusual. 

Startling.

Almost... fearful.

“What's wrong?” 

The eastern horizon stains itself pink, the rumble of the approaching sunrise now barely audible over the nightsound.

He can easily make out Pai's features now, his large, almond-shaped eyes, the high cheekbones, the sparse dusting of whiskers on his jaw and chin. 

The pained expression barely hidden beneath the forced and fading smile. 

Pai is gorgeous.

And... afraid.

Of what?

Pai releases him and he drops to the rooftop.

Cedric watches as Pai stalks to the edge of the roof to stare at the cityscape. 

“You must stay with me, young one.” He speaks in his native Thai, but Cedric understands.

“The path you now follow is tortuous. It leads only to extinction.” He whirls around, his arms wide.

“Stay with me,” Pai whispers, this time in English. “Please.”

For the first time, his Master's voice is unsteady. 

Cedric notes how soiled Pai's clothes are, his white tank top ripped and smudged, his low-slung denims in tatters.

So uncharacteristic.

Pai is distraught.

No, worse than that.

Terrified.

“Please, Pai, don't worry. I know what I'm doing.”

Pai roars then, closing the distance between them in a second.

“You dare pretend to know more than I?” 

He raises himself up, towering over him. 

“Do you think this happens everyday, Diggory?”

The night closes in on him then, sound, light, air... all suddenly oppressive.

Burdensome.

Pai's eyes burn red, overflowing with rage.

The Bloodlust roiling.

“Pai, I--”

“I _chose_ you. From tens of hundreds, I chose you!” 

Pai points a long finger at him, chest heaving, his skin aglisten with sweat. 

“I made you! Saved you from oblivion!”

Cedric's stomach leaps and rolls, his feet suddenly unsteady upon the rooftop. 

“I have to know.” 

With a monumental effort, he averts his master's gaze, staring at the rapidly lightening sky.

Pai snarls something in Thai, shoving past him. 

He stalks the rooftop in a wide arc, punching at a set of chimneys and reducing them to rubble.

Rounding back to Cedric, he is outwardly calm once more.

“As you wish, then.” He waves an arm. “Go! Do what you will.”

“I'll be alright.”

Pai snorts, flying backward to perch on his chimney stack. 

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his denims, tapping one out, his stare glacial, once again composed. 

A sharp _click!_ pierces the nightsound and a blaze of light illuminates Pai's features.

“Don't be angry with me, please.”

Pai is silent for many moments. 

“Clean up your mess.”

Then Pai is gone, arrowing away over the cityscape, nothing left behind but a dying zephyr of scent to mark that he'd ever been there. 

Not that any human would notice.

Cedric shivers despite the fresh blood coursing through his veins.

Did there have to be so many questions?

_“There are always questions.”_

Taking a deep breath, Cedric kneels down, flinging the man's corpse over his shoulder. 

Walking to the edge of the rooftop, he scans the alley below until he finds the ever-present refuse bin.

He stands there as the Sunrise shrieks her arrival.


	5. Prophecy

Cedric barely escapes the onslaught of Sunrise.

He rockets through the warren of streets and alleys, seeking sanctuary in Darkness.

Over fields and lanes and rivers.

Pai is nearby.

Watching, waiting.

So far to go.

No time!

An empty shopfront.

He smashes through the padlocked rear entrance.

Stabbing rays of biting light crisp his skin.

Burning.

Pain.

The stench of Death.

Disuse.

Abandonment.

He rips open the walk-in freezer.

Wondrous silence and Darkness.

His mind slows, going numb. 

Leaden and thick.

He curls up in a corner.

Slipping unbidden into the Abyss.

Fading.

“Pai?”

Silence.

“No time.”

The Veil descends.

**~*~ ~*~ ~*~**

_“Move now, childe.”_

His eyes snap open.

Confusion.

Time splays wide, yawning, rushing, overwhelming.

He screams, a piteous attempt to assuage the Void.

The Hunger scrapes his insides raw.

Emptiness.

 _Must_ fill the Hole.

A scrap of memory sparks.

And then another.

One more.

Disconnected yet connected.

He moves as rusted metal.

A corpse with purpose.

A shambling monster.

He rips the metal door from its hinges.

The nightsound beckons.

The buzzing in his skull sings of the Blood.

Another door flies away.

Mother Moon washes him clean.

Arms flung wide, he basks.

Movement nearby, something in the shadows.

He pounces upon it, snatching, breaking, ripping.

Fangs plunged deep.

Delicious.

Not enough, but enough.

He drops the limp cat, licking his fingers clean.

Blood is Blood.

More.

Another cat, a few rats.

Better.

He knows who he is again.

The Blood restores.

It remembers.

More shadowed streets and alleys. 

Grunts and muffled cries ahead.

A man and a woman.

The man is forcing himself on her.

They both smell delicious.

She is Fear.

He pulls the man away, spiralling upward.

She screams in astonishment. And relief.

Another rooftop. 

Snapping bone, ripping flesh, sweethot Blood.

Sated.

He is himself once more.

In control.

Cedric heeds the nightsound, at one with the symphony.

Arms wide, he scans the vast sea of stars overhead.

Eternity rendered in billions of pinpoints of twinkling light.

Beautiful.

He reaches out, sensing, feeling, waiting.

No answer.

Nothing.

Pai is nowhere. 

He is alone.

He snatches up the drained corpse and leaps across the short series of rooftops.

Crouching on the last edge, he drops to the ground, silent Death in another dim alleyway.

He sprints several blocks in seconds, halting instantly at a construction site.

Scaling the high chain link, he dumps the empty vessel into the deep excavation there.

Sirens wail in the distance.

An errant nightwind caresses his face, invisible fingers ruffling his shaggy mane of hair.

His nostrils flare, his eyes flying wide.

Cedric laughs.

He's moved during the day.

He's no longer in Little Whinging.

_Don't do this! Leave him, and return to me, cherished one!_

Cedric ignores Pai's pitiful entreaty.

He whirls ever faster, rising up.

A somber squall of eternal Hunger.

He streaks away through the eventide, back whence he came.

**~*~ ~*~ ~*~**

Cedric lingers amidst the cornstalks, regarding the crooked house.

Cheerful light gleaming behind each canted window.

Happy voices and laughter riding to him on warm breezes.

Family, home, friendship.

Things he used to know well, but barely recalls.

Faint and elusive, wraiths of memory.

Two forms emerge from the house, side-by-side, their footfalls on the dry grass as drumbeats in his ears.

Another shadow in the doorway calls to them.

“Don't stay up too late. Early start for Grimmauld in the morning. Mind the skies... storm's coming!”

“Okay, mum,” the taller of the two replies. 

Dismissive, annoyed. 

“We'll be alright.”

The mother hovers a moment before retreating inside, the screen door clacking shut.

She watches a few moments more.

Then she is gone.

He senses a handful of others scattered around the house and outbuildings. 

Wizards and witches, wands at the ready.

Watchful and wary.

Afraid.

He expands outward, ghosting across each of their minds, gently probing.

Gleaning.

They are not here for him.

Some vital mission, an earnest duty.

Another mortal melodrama.

The object of their concerns is of no importance to him.

Irrelevance.

The One is all that matters, now.

Of the five standing guard, only two are near enough to hinder his plans.

He flies to the first, silencing and stunning her in an instant. 

The second, a large, dark wizard, manages to land a respectable blow to his head.

It is of no consequence.

Another pair of spells cast, and he joins his compatriot.

The two whisperers have reached the garden shed. 

Dim lamplight glows inside the open double doors.

He is there in half a moment.

_“There is still time, precious one. Leave. Come to me.”_

Pai's petition distracts him.

The ginger leaps from the bench set just inside the doors, pointing at him. “Sweet Merlin! No way!”

Cedric waves a hand. “ _Silencio! Stupefy!_ ”

Ron drops to the earthen floor as cord wood, his eyes wide.

Harry hoists himself up, his wand drawn. “Stay back!”

Cedric advances on Harry, riffling through his whirlwind of a mind. 

A maelstrom of confusion.

And Fear.

“No! Don't be afraid. I've come so far for you.” Cedric whips the wand away into the darkness. “For us.”

Harry's mouth works soundlessly. He shambles backward, stumbling on the bench to pitch sideways to the dirt.

Cedric flies to Harry, lifting him to his feet. “I will never hurt you. I won't let anything hurt you, ever again.” He leans in, turning his head as he remembers, pressing his lips to Harry's.

Harry struggles in his grasp, jerking his head away. “No! I saw you die! You can't be Ced! Let me go!”

Cedric casts a _Muffliato_ on the shed. “Please, listen! It _is_ me, Harry. My Harry, my love.” He draws Harry to him in a crushing embrace. “Love is why I still exist. All for you.” He thrusts his hardness into Harry. “I need you. You are my everything.”

Harry wriggles in Cedric's steely grip. “Please, don't. You're not... can't be... him!”

“I am,” Cedric breathes, rutting into Harry, the heat building in his groin, pounding in his temples. “Let me show you how it could be.” He banishes Harry's shirt and denims. “Don't fear me. Don't fear my power. It can be yours, now. Ours.”

“Gods, this can't be real,” Harry murmurs, his eyes squeezed shut, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. 

“There is so much you don't know,” Cedric whispers, gently releasing Harry. “I'll show you, all of it. Look at me. No one knows me as you do.” He rips off his tattered shirt, buttons flying. He releases the button at the waistband of his denims. “I've missed you _so_ much.” He palms the hard length straining his flies. “See what you do to me? Even now, after all this?” He smiles, his fangs extending to their full length.

“Fuck,” Harry pants, looking all around the dimly lit shed. “You want to turn me?”

_“Only if you wish it.”_

Harry jumps at the mental intrusion. 

“We are bound together, Harry,” Cedric rumbles, shoving down his denims. “In time, you will know my thoughts as I do yours.” 

Harry's gaze flicks downward for a second. 

“You loved me.” Cedric strokes his hard length. “You loved this.” His mind is a blur, a steady stream of words and images, his history, all restored, and more. “Our love survives.” The longer he remains with Harry, the more... human he becomes. 

And feels.

_“It is false.”_

“It isn't!” Cedric snaps, staring at the ceiling. “You don't know anything of it!”

Harry backs away from him. “You're a killer,” he blurts out, licking his lips. 

“So are you. Or at least, you will be.” Cedric is next to him instantly, leaning in, running a hand down Harry's stomach. “How many have died fighting in your name? How many good and innocent souls have fallen protecting you? How many more will be sacrificed? I only take the corrupt, the evil, the irredeemable. Why not let me help? I will kill for you, my love. I will kill them _all_ for you.” He crashes his lips to Harry's again, this time finding no resistance. He slides a hand down the back of Harry's undershorts. 

Harry grunts softly, his tongue a willing explorer in Cedric's mouth. He grinds into the vampire, wrapping his arms around Cedric's waist. 

Cedric breaks the kiss, the blood in his veins as torrid and vital as ever. “Never so alive,” he hisses, his breath ragged, his gaze locked on Harry's pulsing jugular. 

The beat begins, building ever so slowly. “Never so alive as with you.”

A crooked grin forms as the fear drains from Harry's wide eyes. “You'd really do that for me? Destroy my enemies?” He swallows hard. “Kill them, once and for all?”

“Whatever you wish,” Cedric whispers, the drumbeat of his blood intensifying. “Anything, _everything_ for you.”

Harry smiles then, and with a slight nod, yanks down his y-fronts and flings them away. His wonderfully thick cock bobs invitingly. “Am I in your thrall, then?”

“Only if you wish it.” Cedric hunches down, arms wide. The pounding in his skull revs up a notch.

“Gods, it's really you. I've missed you.” Harry leaps into Cedric's arms, wrapping his sinewy, hairy legs around Cedric's waist. “Perhaps you're really in my thrall,” he growls, licking and laving at the base of Cedric's neck. A gentle nip, then a nibble, and he takes a patch of skin between his teeth and bears down hard.

Cedric gasps, wrangling Harry's hips with both hands, positioning his cock under Harry's bollocks and against the crack of Harry's arse. He whispers a _Lubricus_ , aligning the head of his hard member with the tight ring of muscle at Harry's entrance. 

He cries out as Harry tears into him, warm Blood coursing down his chest and stomach. With a ragged howl, he thrusts his entire length into Harry in a single stroke, holding it for a second before pulling back. He ploughs in and out in a deliberate rhythm, the Blood thudding ever louder between his ears.

Harry rears his head back, spitting out bits of skin, moaning Cedric's name and raking his nails across the smooth expanse of Cedric's broad back.

Cedric is lost now, slamming into Harry's blessed heat savagely, the Blood roaring in his head, his vision ringed with crimson.

Harry jerks and bucks erratically, his head lolling from side to side, moaning Cedric's name. He comes then, his ejaculate commingling with their sweat and adding to the delicious friction of their bare chests.

All is Red now. 

The Blood screams through him, every vein and capillary aflame, the molten heat swelling and pooling in his groin, pulsing steadily to crescendo.

“Our love lives!” Cedric wails, his orgasm thundering from him, the inferno of his lust consuming and obliterating all.

The Hunger rises, commands.

Demands.

He sinks his fangs into the throbbing vein before him, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

_“You are lost.”_

It is deafening.

Copperhot and delicious.

Then... something intrudes.

Pinpricks and pinches. 

More of them.

Harder.

Pain!

He stumbles, blinking, the wall of Red peeling away.

Shouts and curses.

More pain, as crocus blossoms in spring.

Screams.

Harry's cries of pain.

He drops Harry, whirling around, fangs bared, his chest covered in the Blood.

Their blood.

His, and Harry's.

They assail him, ferocious, unrelenting.

The mother and the father. 

Three others.

Wandtips glowing, mouths working.

Curse after curse.

Green energy crashes into him.

Wave upon wave. 

His flesh rips and tears.

He rises up, flinging himself forward.

They grab and scrabble for him as he sails past and out of the shed, arrowing upward toward that taunting sea of stars.

 

**~*~ ~*~ ~*~**

 

All is lost.

He is lost.

The Hunger rules him.

He is a monster.

A slave to the Blood.

Pai was right.

Blessed shadow protects him.

He is safe in the narrowing sliver of darkness.

The searing Death surrounds him.

He crouches beneath the huge elm, hugging himself tightly, his back pressed against rough bark.

_“See now where your folly has brought you.”_

“Pai, please! I'm sorry.”

_“You have chosen your path. It cannot be undone.”_

“Pai!”

Silence from his Maker.

All else is deafening.

The sharp breezes rake his skin.

Rustling leaves, birdsong... all assault his ears in a horrendous cacophony.

Eyes squeezed shut against the blinding light.

Tears scorch tracks down his burning cheeks.

Even the clouds have abandoned him.

Nowhere to go.

All of creation pointless without _him_.

The shade steadily wanes.

What has he done? 

“No, please! It won't happen again.” 

The Sun bellows her supremacy.

“Harry!”

All goes white as love dies again.

 

**_~ ~ ~ fin ~ ~ ~_ **


End file.
